Falling Slowly
by forensicator8
Summary: An AU story with a Thomas Andrews and Rose pairing. Mainly focused on Andrews, who befriends and falls in love with Rose. But is the feeling mutual?
1. Pride of Mankind, Dream of Progress

_A/N: I'm a sucker for romance and here's a little story I've been working on, which pairs Rose and Mr. Andrews. (If you're looking for Jack, you won't find him here...heh heh). I don't own Titanic (duh), but I do own some great Titanic books, as I did make a conscious effort for accuracy, but I'm not sure how that will fare. Anyway, just read, enjoy (or not), and review. _

Pride of Mankind, Dream of Progress

Thomas Andrews cast his eyes toward the horizon. 5:45. He smiled and sighed, clicking his pocket watch shut. The sun was starting to fade, turning the sky a brilliant purple and orange—almost worthy of an oil painting. He couldn't have asked for a better evening. From his pocket, he withdrew a small black notebook and leafed through the pages.

"Ah, there you are Tom," a voice said, startling him from his reverie.

"Bruce," he said, penciling notes onto a blank page. "Fine evening isn't it?"

"Quite so," J. Bruce Ismay said, offering a cigarette to Andrews, who shook his head. Ismay lit his and leaned against the ship's rail. "How does a man as quiet and unassuming like you craft the largest moving object in the world?"

Andrews smiled politely having heard this same query from Ismay many a time.

"Come Bruce, I know you didn't venture up here just to enjoy the sunset and sing my praises."

"Hmm. You know me all too well," Ismay said with a chuckle. "Cal Hockley has invited us to dinner tonight. I trust you'll be going?"

Andrews paused, searching for an excuse that would allow him to eschew high society for once and focus the ship's priorities. "I…I still have quite a bit of work to finish," he said, gesturing to his notebook.

"Oh, rubbish, Tom. The first night on your ship and you want to hide in your stateroom. I will not stand for it. Besides, Molly Brown will be there—such a delightful woman—and Gracie, the Astors, and…" he paused, "the DeWitt Bukaters."

Andrews turned his head slightly. He recalled showing Ruth DeWitt Bukater and Molly Brown where the Palm Court Café was located earlier and accepted a request to join their lunch party. He didn't realize that there was more to the family.

"Of course I'll have to make a conscious effort to avoid conversation with the young lady," Ismay said.

"Who?"

"Ruth's brash daughter who was at lunch today. You know, the one who had the audacity to mock me in front of the entire table?"

Andrews remembered now. She must have been the young woman sitting across from him. Such a fiery air she possessed—so unlike the other first class passengers. He had no idea that this lovely woman was the uptight Ruth DeWitt Bukater's daughter. But what was her name? Andrews searched for it in the recesses of his mind. No matter, he thought. He would find out later. Perhaps she would make the dinner conversation as amusing as the one at lunch.

"So, will we be expecting you this evening?" Ismay asked, tossing his cigarette over the rail.

"Of course. I'll be there," Andrews said.

"Good man. And might I suggest leaving _that_ behind," he said nodding to Andrews' notebook. "You work too hard, Tom."

Andrews smiled sheepishly and tucked it into his coat.

"Enjoy yourself for once."

…………………………………

Black or…black. Andrews held up two dinner jackets in front of the mirror, attempting to decide which looked best. What had gotten into him? He was already taking longer than expected to get ready. He grimaced, tossed one aside and quickly pulled the other on.

He walked briskly through the halls and down the grand staircase. As his hand slid down the oak railing and brushed against a slight chip in the wood. How on earth did that happen? Andrews reached into his jacket pocket for his notebook, only to realize it was in his room. He made a mental note of the imperfection and headed to the reception room.

Andrews hardly recognized anyone amidst the throngs of socialites. Although he _was_ a first-class passenger, he couldn't help but feel slightly out of place. He felt more at home in the Belfast shipyards, among the workers whom he considered to be as regal and important as the millionaires around him. Nevertheless, he was accustomed to this routine, having accompanied crew and passengers on the maiden voyages of his other ships. Why should this occasion be any different, he thought. But somehow it felt different. _Titanic_ was a landmark achievement that extended beyond everyone's dreams—even his. And as silly as he knew it seemed, he felt a parental attachment to the great ocean liner that he created.

He sighed and paused momentarily, but soon enough spotted Ismay who was chatting with Captain Smith and decided to join them.

"Ah, here he is! Our _Master_ _Shipbuilder_," Ismay gushed. "We were just talking about you."

"Favorably of course," Captain Smith said, extending an open hand, which Andrews shook. "Thomas, you must be pleased and proud of your ship's first voyage."

"Well, she's yours now, Edward—and she's in good hands. You have a fine crew behind you," Andrews said.

"Undeniably so," Smith said with a smile. The trio was soon joined by J.J. and Madeline Astor.

"Ah! Gentlemen, I believe the rest of our party is here," said Ismay, adjusting his tie.

Andrew breathed a sigh of relief and turned to see Molly and Cal enter the room, followed by Ruth and her daughter, who met his eye. He glanced away quickly and made his way to their table in the dining saloon. Ismay made an exuberant gesture of pulling out a chair for Ruth. Andrews suddenly noticed her daughter began to take a seat next to his.

"Allow me," he said, and pulled out the chair for her.

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews," she said.

He simply smiled kindly and sat down. She knew _his_ name at least. He thought of asking hers, but felt that it might seem too audacious. He kept quiet through much of the dinner, scarcely listening to the others' uninspired conversations. His eyes wandered to the ceiling, to the walls, and around the dining room, surveying the traffic.

Molly Brown was seated next to him.

"Excuse me Mrs. Brown, but have you a pen I could borrow for a moment?" Andrews asked quietly.

"The builder of the _Titanic_ is caught without a writing instrument?"

"Back in my room, I'm afraid."

She fished in her handbag for a pen and handed one to Andrews, who took a scrap of paper from his pocket. If his notebook would be collecting dust in his room that evening, he could at least improvise. He scribbled a few notes down about the table lamps and centerpieces.

"…Tom never liked the idea," Andrews heard Ismay say.

He looked up from his notes. "What didn't I like?"

"The Turkish baths," Ismay said.

Andrews rolled his eyes lightheartedly and laughed. "Of all the things we could've _not_ included on the ship."

"Well, you all must see them--at least for my sake. And the squash court and the swimming pool, of course."

"Then I should've brought along my bathing outfit," Cal said with a chuckle. "But all this talk of this luxurious ship is making me curious. I wonder...perhaps tomorrow, the designer himself could give our party the grand tour," Cal suggested. The group turned in Andrews' direction.

"Oh, yes! That's a wonderful idea," Ruth's daughter said. "Please?"

Andrews wasn't expecting this, but he seized it as a perfect opportunity to display his knowledge of the ship and perhaps note any overlooked imperfections.

"It would be my pleasure," Andrews said.

"Good. Then it's settled," Cal said with a grin.

"You will not be disappointed," Ismay said. "He knows all three million rivets in her, don't you, Tom?"

"Indeed," said Andrews all too modestly.

As the meal was ending, Gracie stood, and invited the men to the smoking room. Andrews wanted no part, and started to leave.

"Tom, won't you be joining us?" Ismay asked.

"Not tonight. I've got to be heading back," said Andrews.

"Going over blueprints and the lot?"

"Nothing extravagant, I assure you, but there is always something new on this ship to scrutinize," Andrews said, standing up. "Good-night, gentlemen."

As he turned to leave, he noticed Ruth's daughter rise from her seat and whisper something in her ear.

Andrews reached the Grand Staircase and paused at the Honor and Glory clock. If only there was enough time to complete the rest of his work that evening. He neared the left stair doorway when a voice sounded behind him.

"Mr. Andrews?" It was Ruth's daughter. "I just wanted to tell you that I think your ship is a wonder. Truly. I can't say I've ever been on a liner this magnificent."

He smiled. "Why thank you, Miss…?"

"Oh! DeWitt Bukater—Rose."

"Well, Miss DeWitt Bukater Rose," he said. She chuckled and tried to suppress a smile. "I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

"As am I." She held out her hand. Andrews took it in his, but hesitated a moment. Should he place a kiss on it or simply shake it? This was a dilemma that seemed to take forever to decide. He chose the latter.

"I will see you on the boat deck tomorrow," he said. "Have a good evening."

Rose smiled at Andrews, who held the door for her. She had a pleasing countenance, warm and sincere. They parted ways and Andrews walked back to his stateroom in the most contented mood he had ever been in.


	2. A Floating City

**FIRST IMPORTANT NOTES! **I've changed the name of the story if you haven't yet noticed...and if you hate it, let me know. I've also changed my pen name in case you were wondering who the hell "forensicator8" was. Anyway, let's proceed...

**Really long A/N:** First and foremost, let me just extend my gratitude to all you wonderful readers! I was surprised to find my email inbox filled with reviews and such…it sure makes me happy. For this next installment, I suppose I should cite the sources that I stole from…included in the story is some dialogue from James Cameron's film and/or Illustrated Titanic Screenplay book, along with some dialogue from musical 'Titanic' by Maury Yeston. There are also some facts from the Eyewitness Titanic book (because I sort of want to know what I'm talking about, so forgive me if I get details wrong). Another thing I should mention is that in real life Thomas Andrews was married with child, but for the sake of this story, allow us to pretend he isn't. So without further ado, I give you chapter two…and three!

A Floating City

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the first-class promenade. Andrews strode aft past the Palm Court Cafe and habitually pulled out his notebook. There was something about the wicker furniture he noticed that did not seem fitting. Perhaps it was the color. They were far too light in appearance and blended with the hue of the floor. Perhaps they would benefit from being stained. He made a note of it and headed up to the boat deck.

"I hope we're not too late," a voice said. Andrews turned to find Cal Hockley and his party approaching. He held Rose securely in his arm. She looked tremendously elegant, but appeared preoccupied—as though she wanted to disentangle herself from Cal's grip.

Andrews tipped his hat to the group. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. "I hope you're all up for a lot of walking because we'll be touring nigh on the entire ship."

Ruth frowned slightly, but Andrews ignored this and decided to begin. Despite her sour attitude, he was nonetheless thrilled to be giving a tour of the ship he built.

"If you look up there," he spoke as he pointed to the rear mast and led the group along the deck, "you'll see the flag which belongs to the White Star Line, the visionaries of _Titanic_. In every age mankind attempts to fabricate magnificent and impossible wonders—the Egyptian pyramids, the Sistine Chapel, Stonehenge—all fantastic miracles. _Titanic_ was no exception. Our task was to dream upon these works and then create a floating city. As you can tell, our dream has become a reality. The ship is over eight-hundred eighty feet long and ninety two feet wide. She is also made up of forty-six thousand tons of steel, and over eleven stories high. You can see why we regard her as our own human metropolis, as it were. Now, if you follow me, our first stop will be the engine room."

He led them to the engine room along a narrow walkway. It was quite noisy with workers shouting and running about, and machines fully engaged.

"Now, if you look over here, you can see our twin reciprocating steam engines," Andrews said enthusiastically. "They stand almost thirty feet tall and are the largest to date. These supply power to the two outer propellers."

"_Outer_ propellers?" Cal asked. "You mean there are more?"

"Yes, one other, which is located between the two, right by the rudder," Andrews said.

"Now, I assume that one is powered separately?"

Andrews nodded. "Steam passes through the low-pressure turbine engine there," he said, gesturing to it. "It then travels along a shaft that supplies power to the center propeller."

"Well, that is very fascinating—contrary to how the machinery at the steel mill works," Cal said to Rose over the hiss of the engines.

Andrews noticed Ruth subtly trying to cover her ears from the noise. Rose was staring in awe at the massive engines—at least _she_ was intrigued.

"Now, if you follow me, our next stop will be the bridge. This way please," he said, and led them back up to the deck.

"Good afternoon, Tom," Captain Smith said.

"Greetings, Edward," Andrews said. "Would you mind if I showed my tour group around the bridge?"

"Be my guest," said Smith.

Andrews motioned for his group to come into the bridge. They stand Two officers were standing perfectly still.

"Here we have three telegraphs that show direction and also send orders to the engine room. This one here gives docking orders to the back of the ship, or the poop deck, when we dock. And right here is the main steering wheel, which is manned by Quartermaster Hitchins," Andrews said. "If the weather is cold, he can choose to move into the indoor wheelhouse, which is located behind us."

"But how do you know where you're going?" Rose asked, peering into the wheelhouse. "Don't you have a navigational device of some kind?"

"Ah, yes. If you look in front of Mr. Hitchins there is a compass binnacle that points us in the right direction. We have three of these on board."

Rose examined the binnacle and telegraphs with fascination, admiring the shining surface of each instrument.

"But why do you have two steering wheels?" Ruth asked.

"Well, the second performs similar functions like the main wheel," Andrews said. "But we really only use it near shore when we're docking."

A young man suddenly approached Captain Smith with a small piece of paper in hand.

"Another ice warning, sir. This one from the _Baltic._"

"Thank you, Sparks," Smith said. He hardly looked at the note and placed it in his pocket. Andrews scowled at Smith's ignorance. Even _he_ knew that it was dangerous to cross the Atlantic at this time of year, and ice warnings were invaluable. He glanced at Rose who had a doubtful look in her eye. Smith must've seen it too.

"Oh, not to worry, miss. Quite normal for this time of year," he said, brushing off the warning with a smile. "In fact, we're speeding up. I've just ordered the last boilers lit."

Andrews couldn't believe what he was hearing. The ship _was_ built for speed, but to speed up in the presence of ice left him apprehensive. He would have to speak with Smith later.

"Now my friends, if you'll please follow me," Andrews said motioning them out of the bridge area to the starboard side of the ship.

A cool breeze filled the air as they walked aft. Andrews opened a door which led to the gymnasium. Inside, a stout man in a white uniform was instructing a couple on a mechanical horse.

"Good morning, folks," the man said.

"Mr. McCauley, do you have a moment to show my tour group some of this state of the art equipment?" Andrews asked.

"Absolutely!" T.W. McCauley said leading them to a clunky looking rowing machine. "Sir, would you care to try your hand at rowing?"

Cal smiled vaingloriously. "I suppose so," he said and handed his coat, hat and cane to Rose. He sat on the machine and gripped the oars, moving them forward and back in an effortless motion.

"Reminds me of my Harvard days," Cal said, rising.

"Care to try the rowing machine, ma'am?" McCauley asked Ruth.

"Don't be absurd," she said brushing him off. "I can't think of a more ridiculous skill."

"Then perhaps the electric horse? We even have an electric camel, which can aid in strengthening your back and abdominal muscles," McCauley said flipping a switch on the camel. The machine began to undulate. "We also have a selection of Indian clubs and mechanical hammers to help massage tense muscles."

Andrews noticed Rose had her eye on a small training bag. She finally made a fist and gave the bag one swift punch.

"Ladies, if you ever feel like exercising, we have special hours for you—10 am to 1 pm. And gentlemen from 6 am to 9am or 4 pm to 6 pm. Hope to see you back here."

"Thank you, Mr. McCauley," Andrews said he gathered the group together.

"Seems rather silly to have lifeboats on an unsinkable ship," Cal said upon seeing them as they left the gym.

"Well, it's regulations," said Andrews. "There are twenty lifeboats—more than we're required to have--each with a capacity of about sixty-five."

"But they look as though they could only hold about twenty," Ruth chuckled as she examined the boat.

"On the contrary," Andrews said. "They were tested with _seventy_ men and I assure you are perfectly safe. Now if you follow me, I'll be showing you some of my favorite places of the ship."

For the rest of the morning, he led them through various areas in first-class, including the Versailles inspired lounge interiors and the ritzy À la Carte Restaurant. He took them below decks, showing them the hospital, mail room and even the swimming pool and squash courts.

They ended the tour on the forecastle deck. Andrews withdrew three pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them to his group.

"I'd like to give you these complimentary tickets for the Turkish baths. If you choose to use them, you must tell Bruce Ismay how much you enjoyed them. He'll certainly appreciate that."

The party thanked him for his generosity, and Ruth led Rose away while Cal stayed with Andrews.

"I must say that tour was well worth the price of my ticket, Mr. Andrews—and I speak for Ruth and Rose when I say that as well."

"You're very much welcome," Andrews said.

Cal nodded and reached inside his coat pocket. He presented Andrews with a small stack of money. "For your time and your troubles."

Andrews looked at the cash and pushed it away. "Mr. Hockley, please. Keep it. My firm pays my salary."

Cal stared at him as though he had lost his mind. He shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "But Mr. Andrews—you're certainly always welcome to join us for dinner."

This was an interesting prospect. Dinner with them at least mean he'd be in Rose's presence each evening. "Thank you, kindly," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

And with that, Cal bid him good day. Andrews watched him go, cane in hand, sauntering down the deck with the air of a god. If Captain Smith was the "millionaire's captain," then Cal Hockley was the captain's millionaire. With that thought, Andrews suddenly remembered his business with the captain. He made his way back to the bridge.

"Mr. Murdoch, have you seen Captain Smith?"

"In his office," Murdoch said. "Taking tea."

Andrews knocked on the captain's door. "Thomas Andrews, sir."

Smith summoned him in.

"Edward, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"What's on your mind, Tom?" Smith asked, placing a slice of lemon in his tea.

Andrews hesitated for a moment.

"Edward, I don't mean to be rude, but why have you given orders to speed up? I know you're keen enough to realize it is ice season. "

"Certainly, but we're hardly in the ice fields. We have our lookouts, and we can always turn in time if we see anything."

Andrews shook his head. "I don't think it's in your best interest to maintain speed, Edward. Remember what happened to the _Arizona_?"

Smith looked away. He knew very well of the liner's crash with a berg that left its bow in a crumpled mess.

"This is my last crossing, Tom," he said looking out towards the ocean. "I've had a horribly uneventful career. To get to New York sooner would be wonderful, and I'd like _Titanic _to be the culmination of my time as captain. Please know that."

Andrews knew he was fighting a losing battle. He knew he didn't have the final say over the captain. "Well, at least keep in mind what I've told you, Edward—if it means a safe crossing. I have a meeting with my engineers to discuss the pressure in engines," he said and bowed respectfully. "Good day."


	3. A First Class Dilemma

A First-Class Dilemma

Andrews walked back to his cabin after the meeting with his team of engineers when he saw a frazzled looking Ruth approaching.

"Mr. Andrews, thank God. I've been all around this blasted floor trying to find someone to help me."

"Ruth. What is the matter?"

"The sink in our washroom, that's what's the matter. One of the maids said you knew how to deal with problems of that sort."

Andrews nodded.

"I really don't know what to do," Ruth said as she led Andrews to the washroom sink. "None of the stewards have a clue with what I'm dealing with." He stopped suddenly to find water dripping over the edge and being caught in a champagne bucket. Rose was at the sink, her hands submerged in the murky water, trying to fix the problem herself. Ruth saw this, and a mortified expression crossed her face.

"Rose! Get your hands out of there this instant!" she cried. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Rose rolled her eyes at the overreaction. "Mother, it's not a catastrophe. Something's stuck. I could get it if you just--"

Ruth hastily pulled Rose's arms out of the sink and wrapped her in a towel. Rose looked at Andrews beseechingly, as if to say "let me help," but he glanced away, slightly embarrassed.

"Now you let Mr. Andrews take a look," Ruth said to Rose as if she were 5-years-old.

Andrews peered into the sink. He removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, plunging his hands into the water. After a moment, he could feel something in the drain.

"Well, there _is_ something stuck," he said. "But it's nothing we can't fix. Rose, if you would be so kind as to give me a hand?"

She tossed the towel back to her mother. "What do you need?" she asked.

"There should be some champagne or scotch glasses in one of the cupboards in your suites. If you could find one, we'll try to get as much water as we can into this bucket."

Rose quickly found a glass and held the bucket up to the sink as Andrews scooped the water into it.

"Ruth, you no doubt could have taken care of this yourself. It's only a small clog," Andrews said.

"Well, Mr. Andrews that's easy for you to say. I'd normally have Rose's maid tend to it, but she's having her lunch now. Besides, I wouldn't even dare put my hands in that water."

Rose shot a disagreeable look at her mother and continued helping Andrews.

"Rose, you were doing the right thing trying to unblock whatever is in here," Andrews said as he poured the last cupful of water into the bucket. In the drain there appeared to be a black string protruding. He pulled at it, but it seemed to be stuck tightly.

"Would you take this here," he said to Rose, giving her the top of the string. "Now, I'm going to pull towards the bottom so it doesn't break."

His hand brushed against hers and he turned his attention back to the string and tugged at it. Slowly it began to ease its way out.

"And…there we go!" Andrews said, pulling the tangled string from the drain. It was fitted with small black jewels. "A necklace…or what used to be a necklace."

He placed it in the sink counter. Ruth handed them towels and examined the necklace.

"Rose, is this _yours_?" she asked in an irritable tone.

Rose's eyes darted away and then back to the necklace. "Oh, so it is," she said quickly taking it in her hand. "I was wondering where it went to."

"Why is it in here?" Ruth continued. "You know you're supposed to keep your jewelry in your room."

Rose looked at him apologetically. Andrews felt slightly uncomfortable in the midst of this altercation.

"Well, well. What's going on in here?"

They all turned to find Cal standing in the washroom doorway, a devious grin on his face.

"Darling," Rose said, taking his arm. "Mr. Andrews just helped us fix a problem with our sink."

"What was wrong?"

"A necklace was stuck," Andrews said, hiding his growing aversion towards the millionaire. "Luckily we were able to pull it out."

"My God Andrews, you're a _plumber_ now? Is there anything you can't do?" Cal said.

Andrews didn't know whether or not to take this remark as a compliment or some kind of petty criticism. "I couldn't have done it without Rose's help, of course," he said, placing his jacket back on.

Cal raised his eyebrows in a look of surprise to Rose who smiled modestly. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and Andrews turned away from the gesture.

"Sweetpea, you shouldn't be so careless with your things," Cal said. "Looks like I'll have to buy you a new one."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Andrews," Ruth said.

"Oh, not at all, ma'am," he said. "You let me know if anything else goes wrong."

As he passed through their stateroom, his eye fell upon the hat hooks and the amount of screws that held it in place. He stared at them for a moment, thinking they appeared too excessive for such a small thing. He decided to reach for a second opinion.

"Tell me," he began, "do you find all these screws unattractive?"

Ruth fluttered over to him, looking at the hooks. "Oh, well, I didn't even notice!" she said. "But why should it matter anyway? If a hat were on the hook, wouldn't the screws be covered so you couldn't see them?"

Rose stepped towards the two and examined the hat rack. "Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Andrews, the screws do seem a little excessive. I don't see why such a small holder should be fitted with so many."

"Rose, don't worry about it. You don't know what you're talking about," Cal chimed in.

"Maybe you should reduce the amount," Rose continued as she ignored Cal. "If you ask me, I think they are rather unsightly."

Andrews smiled. It was one of the most honest comments he received on the voyage. "Thank you, Rose," he said and scribbled the note in his book. "Well, if there is anything else you need, please don't hesitate to find me. I am in A-36, and if not, then I'm always somewhere around the ship. Good day, ladies. Mr. Hockley."

"Mr. Andrews?" Cal said. "Don't forget—dinner tonight. You're more than welcome."

He nodded. "Thank you all. It would be my pleasure," he said and walked back to his cabin, a slight pang of melancholy filling inside of him.


	4. A Friend in Need

**Super important A/N**: I made one major change (which I've edited in previous chapters), and it is this: Rose is not engaged! (Yet...)

Just FYI.

A Friend in Need

Rose leaned against the rail of the aft well-deck, the afternoon sun illuminating her pale yellow dress and crimson hair. She wore no hat, which was quite unusual for a first-class woman, but she appeared radiant in the eyes of Thomas Andrews.

Andrews had come from the restaurant galley where the cooks were complaining about a faulty hot press and overheating in their quarters. He instructed them to cease using the press and that he'd get his engineers to fix the heating problem as soon as possible. After that fiasco, he quickly made his way to the deck to escape the sweltering temperature in galley. The cool ocean breeze was a refreshing transition, but he didn't expect to find Rose up there. He considered approaching her, perhaps to say hello or even initiate a simple conversation. Where was the harm in that? Of course, the thought of doing so was easier than the action itself.

He sighed and tilted the brim of his hat down and pulled out his notebook. He sat down on a deck chair and jotted a few lines about the hot press, but couldn't keep his mind on machinery. He looked back to Rose. She was a fair distance away, but he could easily make out the profile of her face. From his jacket pocket, he took out a sketching pencil and on a blank page began to outline the curve of her chin and cheekbones, and the curling trestles of her hair. It was a perfect moment.

"Tom! I've been looking for you everywhere!" a voice called. Andrews fumbled with his notebook and quickly shut it. It was Ismay who strode towards him.

"Bruce, what can I do for you?" Andrews said, pocketing his notebook. Of all the places Ismay had to be at that moment, why here?

Ismay took a deep breath of salty air and proceeded. "Well, Tom, it's the second day in, and I'd like to know your thoughts on how the crossing's going so far."

Andrews sighed. He disliked being honest with Ismay and rarely had anything positive to say. He also knew that the only news Ismay liked hearing about the ship was good news.

"Not as well as I'd hoped, Bruce," Andrews said. "There have been a few problems."

Ismay said nothing, but looked at him expectantly with his eyebrows raised.

Andrews sighed and continued. "I met with Engineer Bell, and from what he's told me, I have to say that I'm disappointed in the water pressure in the upper decks."

Ismay looked at the shipbuilder as though he were speaking a foreign language.

Andrews continued. "And the kitchen staff is complaining that their quarters are overheated."

"Tom, don't you have anything good to tell me?"

Andrews shrugged. "We're…making fine time, if that's any consolation."

Ismay paused. "Hmm, that's very curious. I'm told the ship is only making twenty-two knots," he said, leaning closer to Andrews. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Well, yes it does, Bruce," Andrews said. "Twenty-two knots is quite sufficient for this ship—it's faster than any other White Star vessel, actually."

Ismay frowned. "But she was build for _speed_. Let's at least look at the essentials. The sea is calm and the weather is fair," he said gesturing to the cloudless sky. "Tom, you worked on the high-speed Cunard ships, so why aren't _we_ going faster?"

"Bruce," Andrews began. "Cunard may get its passengers there a little faster, but this is White Star, and we give them a far better ride. Might I remind you that when your father ran the line he focused on safety and comfort before speed."

"Well, Tom, I am not my father. These days people want speed above everything else!"

Andrews's efforts to dissuade Ismay were growing fruitless. "Bruce, _Titanic_ is brand new. Let the passengers at least enjoy her before we trying anything rash. We'll get to New York as soon as we can, and if it takes a day longer, then so be it."

But Ismay wouldn't back down. "Tom, _Titanic_ must be known as the 'Six Day Ship.' Hell, if the bloody Krauts can get the Kaiser around the world in barely a day—on a bloody tugboat—then so can we."

"I'm sure that we'll do everything that we can, Bruce. I'll have a talk with the captain," Andrews said, humoring his friend.

Ismay smiled. "Now that's what I like to hear. Just think of the headlines when we reach New York ahead of schedule. You won't regret it," he said and tipped his hat to the shipbuilder and he strode off. "Good-day, Tom."

As Ismay left, Andrews weighed the option of increasing _Titanic's_ speed. It was not his decision to make—nor Bruce's for that matter. Headlines would be wonderful, but a hasty push like this during ice season did not seem logical. He sighed and turned his attention back to Rose. She was gone.

He ambled around the boat deck for what seemed an hour. He searched for anything that might need correcting while he continually denied the fact that he was really looking for Rose.

_What are you doing?_ He asked himself. _You're in love—or infatuated no less--with a woman intended for a millionaire. There is no place in her heart for you. Tom, you have no chance._

He continued berating himself as he passed through the first-class entrance down to the promenade when a voice stopped him.

"Mr. Andrews?"

He turned. "Oh, Rose. Hello, er…good afternoon," he said, adjusting his hat rather mechanically. "I…trust you're well?"

"Yes," she said, but paused as though she were searching for the right words to say. "Mr. Andrews…I've been meaning to thank you."

"For what?"

"You've shown my family the utmost kindness, whether or not you were obliged to do so," she began, her blue eyes meeting his. "If there is anything we can do for you in return, please, we're indebted to you."

"Oh, think nothing of it," he said with a smile. "Rose, you're on this ship to enjoy yourself—not to worry about my needs. You should know that it is my top priority to see that everyone else is taken care of."

She looked away. "Well…I thank you anyhow, Mr. Andrews." And with a polite nod and a half-hearted smile, she turned to leave.

Andrews stood alone on the deck, wishing he'd said something else. Rose was already making her way quickly down the promenade.

"Rose, wait a moment," he said, catching up to her.

"Yes?" she asked, looking at him hopefully.

"Will you…walk with me for a moment? I'd like to know your thoughts on something."

"Certainly," she said, her face brightening.

He led her in silence through the first-class entrance.

"I…appreciate your help earlier and your thoughts on the hat hooks—as trivial as you might think they are, your ideas do mean a great deal to me."

"Well, I'm glad to have been of some assistance," she said.

"Just through here," he said leading her through the lounge and into an eloquent room adorned with pale Georgian style decorations and furniture.

"The Reading Room?" she asked.

Andrews nodded. "I'd simply like to know what you think of it. I trust you've been in here during your spare time."

She paused. "No actually," she said hesitating. "It is not my intention to offend, Mr. Andrews, but as beautiful as this room is, I personally would never intend to use it. I have no one to write letters to, nor do I care to read when there is so much else to do on this ship. Besides…it doesn't seem like anyone else wants to either."

She was right. The room was nearly deserted. He had a feeling that the whole room wasn't going to be as popular as he expected, but to hear Rose's opinion certainly helped.

She reached for a book on the browsing shelf. "_The Toils of Archimedes_?" she said making a face while examining its cover and thin yellow pages. "What 12th century library did you pull this out of?"

He reached for the book, but she pulled it away.

"Careful, it might disintegrate," she said with a playful smile.

Andrews suppressed his laughter. "Just for the record, _I_ take no credit in choosing the books here. You can always talk to _The_ _Times _of London if you dislike their selections."

Rose grinned and placed it back on the shelf and drifted over to the room's spacious bay window. "A lovely view," she said.

Andrews joined her. "Now, antique books aside, are there any other changes you'd like to see?"

She scanned the room and shrugged.

"Too much space?" he suggested.

"I think so," she said. "It seems silly to have such a large room that nobody uses. Have you considered reducing its size or perhaps merging it with the lounge?"

"Actually, I'm toying with the idea of eliminating it altogether," he said. "What do you think?"

"I think that's a fine idea. If you ask me, this room appears to be just another lounge. You already have _that_ one," she said gesturing to the First-Class lounge, "which everyone seems to prefer, so why have another?"

Andrews was growing fond of her way of thinking. "I'm curious," he began. "If you were a designer, what would you put in its place?"

She paused, looking at him with surprise and began to absorb her surroundings. "An art room. An area devoted to nothing but painting and creating art. Just think how wonderful that would be. All different--"

She caught herself and paused.

"I suppose that sounds ridiculous," she said with a chuckle. "Personally that is what I would love, but realistically speaking, what first-class passenger would want to dirty themselves up with oils and watercolors? I'm sure you'd most likely do better with a few more staterooms."

Andrews smiled and made a few notes in his book. "I'll propose the idea to my colleagues. Perhaps when we take the ship in for its seasonal renovation, we'll work on converting it somehow."

He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his coat.

"Thank you, Rose," he said. "Receiving passenger input is certainly helpful to me--and the rest of my designers, of course."

"It's my pleasure," she said.

They passed through the lounge when a young steward stopped them.

"Mr. Andrews, sir. Begging your pardon, but I noticed something wrong with one of the starboard side lifeboats."

"Anything serious?" Andrews asked.

"I'm not entirely sure," said the steward. "I noticed something hanging off that most likely should be attached."

"Did you notify an officer?"

The steward paused. "Well…no, but…

"But?"

"Everyone tells me to find you in case something's wrong."

Andrews began to wonder if anyone at all was trained in the workings of the ship.

"You lead the way," he said to the steward. He looked back at Rose. "You're welcome to come along if you like."

And with that, she followed him up to the boat deck.

……

A thorough inspection by Andrews revealed that a tie had come loose on the canvas covering a life boat. Andrews fixed it promptly and routinely made a note of the problem in his book.

"Well, I suppose that's all," he said to Rose. With hesitation he added, "May I walk you back to your room?"

"Actually, I was going to stay out on the deck for a little while. It's such a fine afternoon."

She paused momentarily.

"Would you like to join me? I could use a friend to talk to. Well, that is, if you're not too busy. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do."

Andrews shook his head and smiled. "I have all the time in the world."

………

The splash of the waves wasn't enough to break the deafening silence. What was the matter? He talked to her with ease in the reading room, so why was it such a hassle now? Andrews wanted to say so much, but could not summon the courage to do so. This didn't seem like his usual vigorous self. Rose also seemed to be rather taciturn—and _she_ was the one who wanted someone to talk to.

"Have you…used your Turkish bath ticket yet?" Andrews finally spoke.

"No, but my mother did," Rose said and paused. "She hated it."

Andrews laughed. "Why did I have the feeling she would?"

He noticed a faint smile forming on Rose's lips. "Nothing can ever please Mother," she said. "She's always has to be so…particular."

Silence again. He paused, searching for another piece of trifling small talk.

"Any more troubles with your sink?" he asked hastily.

"Oh, no. It's working just fine," she said.

Andrews noticed the expression on her face growing slightly troubled.

"I'm sorry my mother made such a scene when you were there," she said. "I told her not to worry about it in the first place, but what does she go and do? Runs and tries to find help as though someone were dying." She let out an exasperated sigh. "I could have done the work myself."

Andrews felt at loss for words, and a bit slighted. "Perhaps I should have just left you to it then?"

"Oh no," she said turning to him, her expression rueful. "I didn't mean—well, I—I'm glad you helped. Honestly, I don't know what I would have done had you not been there; lost my mind, perhaps."

She paused.

"Mr. Andrews, you bring about a sense of normality that I haven't been accustomed to in so long. It's not every day I meet truly generous people, you know. I don't find many in my mother's company."

She appeared a bit unhappy, and her eyes were slightly glassy. From what Andrews observed in Rose, she was one of the most bright and independent women he'd met, although he couldn't help but sense a trapped and disheartened soul within.

"Rose, this may not be in my place, but…" he paused, wondering if he should inquire any further. She did however, pique his curiosity. "It seems to me that your mother isn't the only thing troubling you."

An exaggerated smile filled her face. "Oh, no. I'm fine. Just fine," she said as though she rehearsed the answer in case of a moment like this. Andrews didn't buy into it. They stopped at the end of the deck and looked out towards the ship's bow.

"Rose," he said gently, "You don't have to mask the truth for my sake. Trust me--anything you say I'm willing to listen to. I would never tell another soul."

She seemed to loosen at his reassurance, but stood in contemplation. Finally she spoke.

"Mr. Andrews, I don't mean to sound selfish, and I'm sure the last thing you want to hear is how difficult life has been for me," she said with a sigh. "I just feel so trapped. Everyone is always telling me what dreams I should and shouldn't have—my mother is especially guilty of that—and they expect me to be this delicate little flower, but I'm not. I'm strong and made for work—not something lifeless and decorative."

It was though a door had opened. Her manner began to change, and her voice rose.

"I just want to get away. Abandon everything about this life to the wind."

Andrews regarded her with sympathy. He knew his upbringing wasn't dreadful as hers appeared to be, but he tried to reassure her otherwise. "Rose, you seem to have people who care for you—despite what shortcomings they have. And you have everything you could want--"

"You shouldn't be so presumptuous, Mr. Andrews. Forgive me, but I honestly couldn't give a damn about any of it. Having everything doesn't mean I _want _everything," she said. "Even _Titanic_ isn't big enough to escape from _them._ I feel like I'm in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up."

Andrews glanced at her. "Not even your friend Cal? He seems like a nice fellow."

She let out a cynical laugh. "He's the 'them' I was talking about."

"What do you mean?" Andrews asked.

"Cal is my intended," she said dully. "He was wonderful when we first met. So charming and thoughtful —always there to open a door or take my hand. But _now._ Now I feel so trivial in his presence." She stared ahead impassively. "I'm sorry. I won't bore you with that," she said quickly. "Why don't we talk about something else?"

The truth was that it didn't bore Andrews one bit. He was curious about Cal's influence over her and wanted to know more, but decided to let it go unsaid.

"You seem to be rather fond of art," he said, hoping to take her conversation in a more uplifting direction.

"Oh, I adore it," she said, her expression brightening. "One doesn't have to _be_ an artist to appreciate fine art. Imagery should evoke different feelings in everyone."

The sun was already low in the sky, casting its golden beams across the water. Andrews remained captivated by Rose. They walked down to A-deck and continued to converse as they walked down the promenade.

"Can I tell you something?" Rose asked.

Andrews nodded.

"When I was young I used to draw pictures for my father. After seeing the exhibitions in Paris I felt that young artist inside of me wanting to break free. I haven't drawn in so long."

"It's never too late to start."

"Yes, but can you see me with the company I keep—my hands dirtied with pencil lead? They would go mad."

"That would be quite the sight," Andrews remarked.

Rose turned to him. "Just think how Bohemian it would be to be an artist living in a garret or on the streets of Paris…destitute and starving," she said with a laugh.

"With no hot water or caviar," said Andrews.

"I happen to hate caviar," Rose said. "Disgusting little fish eggs--"

A steward suddenly stepped in front of her with a tray. "Miss, would you like some tea or bullion?"

"No!" she said adamantly.

Andrews grinned broadly and stifled a surprised laugh. She _was_ a pistol.

"There's something in me, Mr. Andrews. I don't know what it is, whether I should be an artist a sculptor, a dancer like Isadora Duncan! Or…a moving picture actress!" Her eyes widened as she spotted a man filming on the deck. She ran in front of the camera and struck a pose that would have put a Hollywood starlet to shame.

A few other first-class passengers shot her stern looks, and she straightened up quickly. "I apologize, Mr. Andrews. It's not my intention to embarrass you."

He shook his head. "Not to worry, Rose. This ship could use some life."

……

They passed through the doors of the B-deck entrance and made their way down the corridor to Rose's suite.

"Thank you for talking with me," she said. "It helps to have someone who is willing to listen. Really, it does."

"Anytime, Rose," he said tipping his hat. "I'm always around. Good day."


	5. The Very Thought of You

**A/N:** I should mention much of the details about Andrews come from Shan Bullock's bio _Shipbuilder._ If you haven't yet read it, I highly recommend it if you want true insight on the man himself. (Just Google the title and author and you can read it online).

Again, sorry this took so long to complete. Coming up with the right dialogue can always be a hassle for me. So, without further ado, I give you the latest installment. Enjoy, read, rant, review if you so desire to.

The Very Thought of You

A hesitant knocking at the door of Andrews' cabin broke the silence. It must have been his steward. He set his pen down and approached the door.

"That will be all for tonight, Henry. You may--" he began as he opened the door.

But it was not Henry who stood before him.

"Rose?" Andrews said, rather surprised. She was perhaps the last person he was expecting at his door, and never failed to catch him off guard.

"Good evening, Mr. Andrews. I…I realize it's late, forgive me. I—Cal was wondering why you didn't join us for dinner. He said he was looking forward to talking with you," she said. "I just wanted to make sure if everything was all right."

She looked enchanting. Andrews glanced briefly at his shabby work clothes—quite the contrast to the elegance of her dining outfit.

"My apologies, Rose," he said. "I…had a lot of work that needed to be taken care of. Dinner must have completely slipped my mind." It was a lie. He had spent the past few hours staring aimlessly at various charts, hoping to at least complete _some_ work. But his thoughts had only been focused on Rose.

"Is there something troubling you?" he asked.

"Yes—well, no—I…was…I'm sorry to have bothered you," she spoke quickly and turned to leave.

"Wait, Rose," he called. He realized stopping her like this was almost getting to be a habit. "If I could atone for missing dinner, would you permit me to accompany you for a walk up on the deck?"

She held a pair of gloves in her hands and began to twist them anxiously. "I suppose that would be alright. Cal's gone off with his group and the last thing I'd want to do the rest of the evening is talk to my mother."

He was elated, but restrained any indication of emotion. "Just a minute," he said and grabbed his coat and hat.

……………………………..

They walked along the boat deck, an unlikely pair—she dressed up to the nines, and he in his drab work clothes.

"Didn't realize it was this chilly out," Rose said, rubbing her arms for warmth. Andrews noticed.

"Here," he said, taking off his overcoat and placing it over her shoulders.

"Oh, thank you," she said. Andrews' paint-stained shirt must've caught her eye. "It's a good thing you weren't at dinner."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"I don't think they would have let you in dressed like that."

"Are you sure? I'm told that this is the latest fashion," he said gesturing to his threadbare outfit.

A broad smiled filled her face and she began to laugh.

"Mr. Andrews, I don't think I've been in such high spirits since…well, I really couldn't say." She paused. "Listen, Mr. Andrews, I didn't mean to pull you away from your work. Honestly. I just…well, you're the only level-headed person I've met, besides Mrs. Brown, who seems to understand me. I know I've said that before, but I just had to get out of there before they suffocated me any more than I could bear."

"You run with a dangerous crowd," Andrews said. "Attractive on the outside, but vicious within." He paused. "Well…not that that should describe _you, _I mean—you're an exception to the rule."

She smiled. "Trust me, if I had the choice you wouldn't see me mixing with the likes of them. I would be gallivanting around the world with nothing to hold me back!" She skipped ahead of him and twirled around. "I'd be _living._"

"And what's stopping you?" Andrews asked.

Rose shrugged. "I think about it all the time—how to plan my escape when the moment is right," she said.

"You could desert your mother like that?"

"I always get to thinking, and it hits me. Despite the pain she's caused, part of me would feel guilty in a way for leaving her. Do you understand?"

"I do," Andrews said. "Having to abandon all your memories—everything and everyone you love most…" He trailed off.

"You've had to?" she asked.

"Well…" he hesitated. "You see, recently my father has been in poor health."

"Oh, I am sorry," she said. "Why should you have to come along on the voyage then?"

"That is the trouble," he said. "You should know for this crossing I'm representing my firm, Harland and Wolff. I know this ship as no one else does, so naturally I feel responsible should anything go wrong. But I also have an obligation to my family. I love them dearly. And to leave my father behind when I know that each passing day may be his last...well…"

He trailed off and stared ahead into the darkness.

"I adore _Titanic,"_ he said, "but every hour sheis taking us further away from home."

"I understand completely," she said.

Andrews nodded, grateful to have a companion whom he could sympathize with. He glanced her way. At least she seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.

He sighed. "Come what may, we all move on. I believe as human beings we all can summon the strength to carry on through any hardships we might face."

They were briefly silent, listening to the ocean waves push against the side of the ship. Andrews for once felt strangely calm in Rose's presence.

"May I ask what your home is like in Ireland?" she asked.

"You'd really like to know?" he asked. She looked at him and nodded. "Oh, well, a beautiful place. My family has a cottage near Strangford Lough—so lovely in summer. You can take a boat out onto the waters and float there for hours, listening to the wind pass through the trees and the birds singing on the beaches. Even just thinking of it now—how much I'd love to be there. It's heaven on Earth, really."

"That sounds wonderful," Rose said. "And is it just you and your wife?"

Andrews looked momentarily taken aback. Wife? Why would she ask such a question? "No—I am not married."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her face reddening. "I just thought you being…well, you mentioned family and I thought you, well--never mind. Forgive me. I know that can be a delicate subject."

"Hmm?"

Rose paused briefly. "Marriage."

"Ah. Well," Andrews said, unsure of how to respond. "_I'm _probably not the one to ask about the matter—a bachelor since birth, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

Andrews realized from her silence that it must have only been a delicate subject for _her. _He knew full well that he barely scratched the surface of Rose's troubles. "Although, I'm sure it's nothing we can't discuss," he said. "Do you have hopes to be married some day?"

She inhaled deeply. "That's all my life revolves around, really. It's marriage _this_, marriage _that_. You see, after my father died, Mother made it a priority to marry me off. That began nearly eight years ago. I've had so many suitors; one would have thought I was a princess of some kind. But by the age of twenty-five you feel like an old-maid and nothing but doomed."

Andrews began to realize how much it weighed her down, how much pain it caused her, and how much life it drained from her. She stared ahead blankly, and he could already sense her ardent spirits beginning to dissipate.

"I hear we're making record time," Rose said, attempting to change the subject. Andrews realized she had employed this same tactic earlier when the subject of Cal surfaced. "It's been such a smooth ride, too—hardly any vibration."

Andrews nodded languidly and let out a sigh. He gazed up at the steam billowing from the funnels. He knew a majority of the passengers were ignorant to the intricate workings of the ship, and Rose was no different. He wished he had the time to explain to her all that accounted for the "smooth" ride. Stokers sweating around the clock in the boiler room inferno, their lungs black from the coal dust. Engineers running up and down stairs, making sure the pressures were continuously correct.

"_Titanic _is a beautiful creation," Rose said softly, no doubt sensing his quiet discontent. "You should be proud of your work."

"Well, yes," he said hoping to change the subject. "There are always imperfections to be corrected."

"But surely, Mr. Andrews, to build a ship—_this_ ship even—doesn't that at least fill you with a tremendous amount of accomplishment?" she asked.

"Most certainly it does. Watching it take form in the yards, a team of the best at its keel. There is no better feeling than watching your design becoming a reality. But this ship…" he paused, realizing he might say too much. Did he dare go on? Could Rose be trusted enough? "…as perfect as it appears—is incredibly flawed."

She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Here, for example."

He stood up and walked to a lifeboat.

"Do you see these davits? State-of-the-art Welin Quadrant Davits. There's a modification that allows us to fit an extra row of boats here. You should know that safety has always been my primary concern, but upon presenting this design to my colleagues, they found that more lifeboats meant less deck space. So, the davits are here, but the extra boats…well…"

Rose studied him for a moment as he sat back down. "Then you're saying…" she trailed off, thinking a minute. "There would only be enough room for half the passengers. Is that right?"

"I'm afraid so," he said.

They were silent.

Andrews sighed and attempted to ease her doubts. "You need not worry. I've built you a good ship—strong and true. She's all the lifeboat you need."

Rose turned to him and smiled faintly. "Mr. Andrews, you don't have to mask the truth for my sake."

Her keen mind impressed him. "Rose, I should know by now that you miss nothing. I suppose I've just been so used to telling people that there is absolutely nothing wrong with her—to ease their doubts. 'As perfect as brains could build her,' I've said."

"But if something were to happen?" she asked.

Andrews wanted to tell her the truth. All ships were capable of sinking, including the "unsinkable" _Titanic._ He disliked entertaining the notion of the grand ship meeting a watery grave.

"It's a risk," he admitted. "But for reasons unsaid, we choose to turn a blind eye to the fact. Size before safely I'd imagine."

He looked at Rose, who appeared to be in thought.

"Why am I filling your mind with uncertainties?" Andrews finally spoke. "Rose, from now on you must remind me _not_ to talk about this ship. I eat, sleep and breathe _Titanic_. Let us at least have one conversation that does not relate to her."

"I have a feeling that might be rather difficult," she said, gesturing to the surroundings.

They both stood up and walked to the ship's rail. The reflection of lights from the portholes danced against the water. Andrews felt a slight breeze, and the intoxicating scent of Rose's perfume drifted his way. She held onto a davit and leaned back as she gazed up at the starry moonless sky.

"Just look at it," she said. "So vast and endless, and we're so small. The rest of our crowd—they think they're giants, but..." she paused. "They're not even dust in God's eye."

Andrews couldn't help but feel under her spell. "Rose, you are a rarity."

She smiled modestly and turned her attention back to the sky.

"Look, a shooting star! Aren't we supposed to make a wish?" she asked with a glance Andrews' way. "What would you wish for?''

He stared at her pensively. "Something I can't have," he sighed.

Rose looked at him quizzically, her eyes locked with his. It was all too much. Andrews flipped open his pocket watch in haste. "Well, it's getting late," he said, but somehow wished the evening would never end. "I have an early meeting tomorrow morning with the captain."

"Right," said Rose. "I'd best be getting back, too. Don't want to send Mother into another one of her states."

They stood at the first-class entrance. She removed his coat from her shoulders and handed it to him.

"I'll be seeing you, Rose," he said. Suddenly the calm that washed over him throughout the evening began to diminish, as he wondered once again whether or not he should kiss her hand. All gentlemen did that. It was the most trivial matter. Why was it so difficult for him? In a moment of cowardice, he opened the entrance door and let her pass through.

"Good-night," she said, with a nod of her head.

"Good-night," he said quietly as he watched her go. He sighed. Another night gone, just like the last and still he felt emotionally wrecked. He closed the entrance door and decided to remain on the deck for a while in hopes to clear his head. He sat down on the bench they had shared and gazed up at the infinite sky of stars. _Vast and endless…we're not even dust in God's eye,_ she had said. Andrews began to realize how insignificant he felt—and how trivial _Titanic_ now seemed—a mere speck on a massive ocean.


	6. Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

**A/N:** Wow. My most profuse apologies for not updating in over five months! In that time I've been brainstorming the events of this and the coming chapters. I hope it was all for the best…

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

Andrews' stateroom was in disarray. His bed was overturned and clothes from his armoire were strewn about. He frantically rifled through the papers in his drawers, the charts on his desktop. He crawled on his hands and knees underneath it, pushing through a pile of crumpled papers that littered the floor. Nothing.

Rifling through the drawers of his desk, he found two blank sketchbooks, but not the notebook he was looking for.

"Come on! Think! Where the devil is it?" he muttered to himself.

He pulled his coat off his chair and shoved a hand into each pocket, only realizing he had already checked there to no avail. He cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his hair. For a moment he stood motionless. A look of dread crossed his face as he began to accept that he lost his notebook.

…………………………..

Breakfast in the women's company was beginning to stifle him. Cal had always found Ruth DeWitt Bukater to be a charming woman, but her conversations after prolonged periods of time were grating. As forbearing as he was, Cal could easily mask his contempt with a charming smirk or a false chuckle, or have Lovejoy pull him away.

That morning he decided to excuse himself from breakfast for a personal respite. He had asked Rose to accompany him, but she chose to remain behind. She had been uncharacteristically aloof when he spoke to her, always shying away from his touch. He surmised it must have been the effects of ship travel.

He meandered along the deck toward and breathed in the cool morning air, relishing the solitude. He stopped at a gate that separated first from third class and observed the people below. _Just as I imagined,_ he thought, _Unpriviledged canaille. _He chuckled at the sight of them and turned around.

Walking back to the café, his eye fell upon something situated underneath one of the benches on the deck. Someone's lost pocketbook?

He bent down and picked it up. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was a black notebook. He glanced around to see if anyone would claim it. Normally he wouldn't bother with investigating further, but the deck was deserted, and out of some uncontrollable curiosity, he began to leaf through it. The pages were lined with various notes scribbled in a quick, steady hand and included many detailed sketches of the ship. _How_ _dull_, he thought.

He was about to toss the book aside, but stopped abruptly at the sight of one particular drawing. It was the profile of a woman, which he would have paid no mind if it weren't for—

Cal froze and brought the notebook closer. _It can't be,_ he thought. But it was. At that moment he recognized Rose as the woman in the drawing. The resemblance was uncanny. He stood there dumbfounded, vexation boiling inside him. He began to seethe and quickly turned the pages of the notebook, hoping to find the name of its owner.

On the top of the inside cover, written in the finest penmanship was a name: _Thomas Andrews. _

…………………………………..

Andrews sat in a corner of the Verandah Café, eating breakfast quickly while watching an unruly group of children run around the dining area.

The book must have fallen out of his pocket, or he set it down and forgot about it. He chastised himself for being this careless. Every important bit of information regarding the ship was in that book—and, not to mention, the drawing of Rose.

He tried to remember where and when he had the book last. His stateroom? Did he have it out when he was looking at his blueprints? He tried to recreate the scene in his mind, but didn't see a notebook anywhere. Then Rose came to his door. And what happened next? He got his coat. Then it must have been it his coat pocket. But the search there was futile.

His head began to pound. He left the café and stood in the morning sun. A few deckhands were unfolding chairs, preparing for the morning traffic. _Of course,_ he thought as it finally dawned on him: the aft deck where he and Rose walked last night.

Andrews strode quickly up to the boat deck and began to retrace his steps. After about three sweeps along the deck, he found nothing. With dashed hopes he imagined the worst as a series of images played through his mind: that it got kicked off the deck into the ocean, that a young child picked it up and started using it as a sketchbook…or that Rose could have stumbled upon it. _But what are the chances of that ever happening_, he thought.

……………………………………..

Cal stood in his suite, briskly puffing on a cigarette. On a table before him lay the notebook. He stared at it as though it was the most atrocious thing in the world and contemplated whether or not he should return it to Andrews.

He stubbed out the cigarette and walked out to his promenade deck.

What did it all mean? Was that drawing a suggestion of some kind of petty infatuation? Could Andrews really possess any sort of feelings for Rose? _How inconceivable, _he thought. Andrews didn't seem the type. He was too absorbed in his work. Yet a thought in the back of his mind opposed this very notion. What if Rose in turn had feelings for the shipbuilder? If she did, she harbored them well. And she _had_ been considerably absent from Cal the past couple days, which further raised his suspicions.

"This is absurd," muttered Cal.

"Mr. Hockley?" Spicer Lovejoy inquired.

Cal turned to his valet, but remained pensive. He picked up the notebook and leafed through it to a dog-eared page. His face contorted into a vile frown. "You know he writes about her, too. It's absolutely childish."

Lovejoy raised an eyebrow, his expression vacant.

Cal read, "'_Never before has a woman of such character and beauty captured my heart so…'" _He paused. "Does this Andrews not realize she belongs to me?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

Cal paced around the room and finally looked at Lovejoy with a twisted smile. "I have an idea," he said, and slid the notebook into his jacket pocket.

……………………………………………

"Andrews! There you are."

The shipbuilder nearly doubled over at the mention of his name. "Oh! Good afternoon Mr. Bell," Andrews said, roused from distraction. He knew he shouldn't have walked toward the bridge.

"I was just telling the Captain that the fire in boiler room six has finally been contained," Engineer Bell said.

"That's the number ten bunker," Andrews noted. "How does it look?"

"The bulkhead has sustained considerable damage," Engineer Bell said.

"Have they applied oil to the damaged areas? The firemen are taking care of that I trust?"

"They're doing their best," said Bell.

Andrews nodded approvingly and edged away from the bridge, hoping he could make a quick escape. Captain Smith approached him. "Thomas, you're a difficult man to find. Did you forget about our meeting this morning?"

Andrews stopped and flipped open his pocket watch. It was almost 11:00. "I suppose I did," he said sheepishly, remembering their 9:00 meeting. "I'm terribly sorry, Edward. Please forgive me."

"Not to worry Tom. I believe Mr. Bell has covered everything we needed to discuss," the Captain said.

"Actually," Andrews began, "there is one thing I'm concerned about. I should have inquired about this earlier, but is our coal supply sufficient enough to reach New York?"

The Captain nodded. "It is my understanding that we have enough. If you'll recall, we were about a thousand tons short when we left Southampton. A shame that coal miner's strike wasn't settled sooner or we would not be in this situation. Then again, I don't know how much was burned off in the fire."

"I see," Andrews reached into his coat for his notebook in order to write down a small calculation, but forgot it was missing. He fidgeted with his necktie. "Well, if that is the case, I believe we should conserve as much as we can. Reducing speed might be wise choice, Edward. I would hate to be stranded out here just because we used up all our fuel."

"I will take your word for it," said the Captain. "I doubt if that's something Bruce would like to hear."

"He can be rash," Andrews said. "But you're the captain, Edward. You always have the final say."

The Captain nodded briefly, and one of the Marconi boys stepped out to the bridge and presented him with a small piece of paper.

"An ice warning from the _Rappahannock_," he said.

"Thank you, Bride," said the Captain.

Andrews gave a cautionary glance to the Captain. "It won't be the last."

"I know," sighed the Captain as he looked out to the clear waters ahead of them. "I will see you at dinner, Tom."

Andrews left the bridge and walked along the deck once more. He looked under chairs, benches and even in the hands of passengers. Nothing. He needed to take his mind off the notebook ordeal for the time being. Lunch would be served soon. He made his way to the poop deck, an area that he rarely visited. A few third-class passengers milled about. Andrews walked to the rail of the stern and peered over. Not since construction in Belfast had he stood beneath _Titanic's_ stern, scaffolds flanking each side of the ship, the keel resting in its slipway cradle, awaiting launch.

Andrews looked out to the horizon and observed the trailing wake of the ship. Irregular—in the shape of an "S." They're testing the compasses, he thought. A good thing to do at a time like this.

But not even the mechanics of the ship were enough to keep his mind off his lost notebook. He felt he could not rest until he found it.

Andrews headed back to his stateroom, his mind tense and his spirits despondent about the chances of ever finding his book. Outside his doorway stood Henry his steward, who rushed toward him.

"Sir! I've been looking for you everywhere," he said frantically. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your room has been ransacked."

Andrews placed a hand on the nervous steward's shoulder. "It's alright, Henry. That was my doing," he explained. "Please don't worry about it."

"Oh," Henry said with a perplexed look on his face. "Well, this is for you." He handed Andrews a bundle of white cloth.

Andrews opened it. "Bread?"

"From Chief Baker Joughin," answered the steward. "A special loaf baked just for you."

The crust was perfect and it smelled incredibly fresh. "How very kind of him. Will you please send him my best regards?" Andrews said dismissing Henry, and spent the remainder of the morning tidying up his room.

…………………………………………………

He didn't want to go without lunch, but relentlessly searching for the book had significantly increased his hunger.

Andrews entered the Palm Court Café as discreetly as he could, hoping not to run into anyone he knew.

"Ah! Tom, come join us," Ismay beckoned.

The shipbuilder winced and noticed his colleague once again in the company of Molly Brown, the Astors, Cal and the DeWitt Bukaters. He locked eyes with Rose for a fleeting moment and quickly averted his gaze.

"G-good afternoon everyone," he said softly.

"Have a seat, Mr. Andrews," said Molly.

Andrews took a vacant chair next to John Astor. Rose sat diagonally from him, next to her mother and Cal.

Lunch was served and Andrews remained preoccupied as he ate. He refrained as best as he could from intentionally glancing at Rose and absent-mindedly picked at his food.

"Are you well Tom?" Ismay inquired. "You look a bit pale."

"What? Oh. I'm fine. Just fine," he answered quickly. "I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite today."

"Well, more for me then," Ismay said accepting another helping of fruit.

"So when do you all predict we'll arrive in New York?" Molly Brown asked.

"I wager Wednesday," said Astor. "Isn't that what it says on our tickets?"

"I'm pulling for Tuesday night," said Ismay.

"Tuesday?" said Ruth. "Do you think so?"

"Quite," Ismay said. "That is if the Captain decides to light the rest of the boilers. This ship is more than capable of pulling her weight and arriving a day early, right Tom?"

Andrews glanced at his colleague, knowing that a disagreement with Ismay wouldn't be fitting at a time like this. He gave a curt nod.

"Well, one hundred dollars says we arrive Tuesday," Astor bet.

"You're on," said Molly playfully.

From the corner of his eye, Andrews noticed Ruth and Rose stand to leave.

"Are you coming?" Ruth asked Cal.

"Go on ahead, I'll join you shortly," Andrews heard him say.

Sensing an auspicious moment to leave, the shipbuilder set his napkin on the table and silently excused himself.

"Oh, Mr. Andrews? Before you go, I wonder if you would join me outside for a moment," Cal said cheerfully.

Andrews hesitated. There was an unnatural glint in Cal's eye that made him uneasy. His tone of voice seemed soft and unnaturally polite. "Certainly, Mr. Hockley."

The two men walked out onto the deck. Cal's suit appeared brand new. He clutched a mahogany cane and appeared the proper specimen of all that Rose deserved.

"What is it?"Andrews asked.

"Might I confide something to a gentleman like you?" Cal asked as he lit a cigarette.

"Of course," he replied. "What is it?"

Cal flicked the lighter shut and exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Have you ever been sure of the one person you'd want to spend the rest of your life with?"

_Yes,_ Andrews wanted to say_. I have only known her a few short days._ But he did not answer.

"Let me put it this way," said Cal. "Have you ever been in love?"

The question surprised Andrews. "Yes. Once," he answered flatly.

Cal smiled and locked eyes with the shipbuilder. "Well, then you might know where I'm coming from. Rose has been terribly melancholy the last few days." He paused. "Women can get like that—I've seen it before. They hole themselves up in their rooms, bottle their emotions, and refrain from physical contact and even speaking to you. And do you know why?"

"No," Andrews replied.

"They're _waiting_. Waiting for that one pivotal question," Cal said. "You see, once a man has asked a woman's hand in marriage, their woes disappear."

Andrews froze and felt a lump in his throat tighten.

"I plan on proposing to Rose…tonight," Cal said.

Andrews dreaded hearing these words, but knew they were somehow inevitable. "That's…well…my congratulations—to you both," he managed to choke out with feigned happiness and a forced smile.

"Thank you," Cal said regarding him coolly. "Now, I want the proposal to be a memorable and romantic one—which is why I wanted to talk to you. The question is _where_ could I propose to her?"

Cal drummed his cane against the rail. Andrews dared not say anything.

"Mr. Andrews, I've asked you here because you know this ship like the back of your hand. What would you suggest to a man in my position?"

Truthfully, Andrews could recommend any part of the ship for a romantic proposal, but he simply shrugged.

"Oh, come now. I know you know. Think, man," Cal pressed.

But all Andrews could think of was one particular area. "The top of the Grand Staircase. By the clock?" he suggested.

"Ah, yes! A fine setting. How perfect that would be," Cal said, but paused. "Oh, but think though of how many people would be walking through."

"Yes, it would be rather crowded, wouldn't it?" Andrews said, hoping to dissuade Cal of carrying out the proposal.

"I suppose you're right," Cal said.

Andrews opened his pocket watch. "Would you excuse me, Mr. Hockley? I'm supposed to meet with my Guarantee Group in a bit," he lied. He wanted no part of Cal's schemes.

"Of course. Thank you for your help. I'll consider it."

The shipbuilder nodded and began to hastily walk away.

"Oh, and Andrews," Cal called after him.

"Yes?"

"You're quite the artist."

Andrews turned and felt a jolt of humiliation course through him. His face went pale as he caught sight of his notebook in Cal's hands, opened to the portrait of Rose.

"It would behoove you to choose your subjects more carefully," Cal said examining the drawing.

"Give that to me. Please," Andrews said, a slight tremor in his voice.

"Oh, I will," Cal said deviously. "But you're going to help me. After dinner tonight, I'm taking Rose to the top of that staircase and will ask her to be my wife. _You_ will inform the staff that at eight o'clock they will make sure that no one passes through—that is, if you want your book back."

The shipbuilder cast him a livid glare, wanting to tear the book from Cal's hand, to strike him across the face—or even throw him over the rail. But aggression was not in his nature. He felt utterly powerless.

"This must be orchestrated perfectly, Andrews. You've built the largest moving object in the world. Surely you can keep the whole first-class crowd at bay for five minutes." He slipped the notebook back into his jacket pocket.

Andrews knew Cal had planned this carefully, and all he could do was tacitly comply—even if it meant losing Rose.

"Remember," said Cal as he sauntered away, "eight o'clock tonight."

**A/N:** Well, if you're reading this, then you made it through the chapter and I congratulate you! Stay tuned for more (if you choose to do so). In the meantime—and if I may plug—stop by my profile and check out my YouTube channels for some humorous recut movie trailer fun.


	7. Feeling the Pull

**A/N: A thousand apologies for not updating in such a long time! I pretty much wrote myself into a corner with this story and it took a while to get this chapter just right. Although it's short, I hope it works out. Enjoy!**

_"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

Feeling the Pull

This was not the way he wished to spend his afternoon—running around each deck of the ship alerting the staff of Cal's unusual request.

"Does he want a special dish prepared?" they would ask. Or, "Does he want a photograph taken?"

"I don't know," Andrews would reply. "I would suppose not. I'm sure it will be over and done within minutes. It's a proposal, not a wedding."

Andrews walked out onto the promenade and took a deep breath of sea air. He leaned against a rail and looked out to the horizon. He never imagined that he would be in a situation like this. It was ridiculous; something that would only appear in books. And it was all because he happened to set his eyes upon Rose the first day of sailing.

Why did it bother him so? He couldn't bring himself to admit anything to Rose. He was too afraid. A coward. Indeed, it was true. So often he wished he wasn't as painfully reticent as he felt. If only he were able to freely assert himself with ease, almost like the way Ismay did.

But she was out of his reach. He forced himself to face that fact. This wasn't going to be like a fairytale. He wasn't going to rescue the princess from the clutches of the evil villain, and she was never going to fall in love with him.

_Never._

He repeated the word in his head until it hurt. Forcing himself not to love her seemed to be the only sensible thing to do, and the only way he could quietly turn away in defeat.

As he walked towards the 1st class entrance, he saw two familiar figures emerge from the doors: Ruth and Rose. _What perfect timing_, he thought, but he could hardly bring himself to turn away, as he reveled in the sight of her. She wore a pair of delicate beige gloves with a gold-trimmed shawl draped around her beautiful violet dress. Andrews felt like he was melting, but he shook himself out of his trance realizing that Cal was probably in tow. If Cal saw Andrews so much as look at Rose, Andrews didn't know what dreadful punishment would be in store. There was no doubt in the shipbuilder's mind that Cal carried the notebook close to him, ready to reveal all his secrets to Rose. It was a fearful thought, however implausible it sounded.

He quickly turned his back to them and tried to find an escape. The door to the lounge pantry was closest. He twisted the handle. _Damn! _Locked.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw them coming closer.

"Mr. Andrews, is that you?" he heard someone call. The voice was Ruth's, and one he couldn't ignore.

He turned around, ready to face the firing squad. "Erm…good afternoon," he said looking past Rose, hoping not to catch her eye.

"My dear Mr. Andrews," Ruth continued. "I was hoping to speak to you. It's about the hinges on—"

Andrews cleared his throat abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now."

"Why ever not?"

"Because…I am needed on the bridge. Perhaps another time," he said in an unusually hasty tone. "Please excuse me."

He rushed past them as quick as he could and headed in the direction of the bridge. He could feel their eyes upon him as he strode away. He hoped that his brusque manner hadn't offended them too severely, but he couldn't face Rose. Not now. Not when it felt like everything in his notebook, every confession, thought and perception of Rose was written all over his face.

He cut through the bridge to the other side of the ship and took a seat on a nearby bench. His head was pounding. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to alleviate his strained senses. At least Ismay wasn't hounding him. _That _he was at least grateful for.

"'So lonely 'twas that God himself scarce seemed there to be,'" came a voice.

_Speak of the devil. _"Hello, Bruce," Andrews said, weary of the sight of the man. He tried to mask his fatigue with a half-hearted smile.

Ismay's grin faded, undoubtedly at the sight of the shipbuilder's pallid complexion. "Andrews, what's the matter with you?" he asked. "Am I to presume you're suffering from a broken heart?"

"What?"

"Well, you seem to convey all the usual symptoms: melancholy, withdrawn, hardly speaking to friends," he said. Andrews didn't how to respond to this. How could Ismay of all people know? After a moment Ismay smirked and patted Andrews' shoulder. "Only joking, Tom. Don't tell me you've lost your sense of humor now, have you?"

Andrews heaved a sigh and shook his head, relieved Ismay wasn't privy to his situation.

"Tom," he began, "if you don't mind me telling you, you _do_ look rather poorly. Is anything wrong?" When Andrews did not respond, Ismay exhaled and faced him squarely. "I'm only concerned. Smith told me you missed a meeting with him. I said that didn't seem like you at all." He paused, trying to examine Andrews' face more closely after he looked away from him. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, really. I've…" Andrews stopped, unsure of whether to tell Ismay, who only looked at him expectantly. "I've…lost my notebook. I'm sorry Bruce, but it's been a maddening circumstance for me at the moment. Everything I had written down about improving the ship was in there." _And so was everything about Rose,_ he thought.

Ismay raised a brow. "So that's what this is all about? Shame," he said. "You and that book were inseparable. I do hope you find it soon. We can't have you moping around the ship in this dismal state for the entire voyage."

Andrews managed a small smile. "Thank you, Bruce. I won't let it get to me."

"That's the spirit," he said. "Oh, before I forget, I have a piece of exciting news. Smith tells me at the rate we're going, we're likely to reach New York by Tuesday night." He grinned broadly. "Didn't I tell you! Just think of the headlines, Tom. Think of what it will mean for White Star, for me, for _you_."

Andrews' expression remained unchanged. He didn't care for headlines. All he cared about was the state of the ship and its passengers. Ismay smiled merrily and tipped his hat as he turned to leave. "See you at dinner."

_If Ismay wants his press spectacle, then let him have it, _Andrews thought. He had neither the energy nor the patience to persuade him otherwise. He didn't even have the heart to tell Ismay that he never received an invitation to dinner that evening. Besides, he wasn't expecting one. Why would a steel tycoon and his party want to dine with a man unfittingly besotted with his soon-to-be fiancée? He opened his watch. It was nearly four o'clock.

He ventured back to his room and found his steward, Henry, busy tidying up the clutter Andrews created during his search for his notebook.

"Have you found it yet, sir?" the young man asked.

Andrews shook his head. He felt drained as he slumped back in his desk chair. He was beginning to feel less and less like himself; disinterested in searching for flaws in the ship, unable to concentrate on any work. Rose had invaded his thoughts and wouldn't leave, no matter how much he tried to push her out. But the more he thought of her the more he wanted her. He wanted her in his arms, to touch her crimson hair, to feel her skin on the palm of his hand. But more than that, he wanted to help her. He _could_ make it happen by simply walking right up to her, telling her forthright how much he loved her. His mind began to swim with impossible scenarios of Rose and himself, as he whisked her away from Cal and her family, away to Ireland where he could grant her the freedom she so desperately wanted.

But then reality dawned and erased every impractical thought away. How could he, an inhibited shipbuilder help someone so independent yet so vulnerable? And besides, what good was imagining? Such folly only made him feel powerless, and that any effort to help her would be insignificant. He hated himself for it.

He pulled out a piece of stationary. Surely composing a missive to his father would take his mind off the strenuous matters at hand. He managed to write only a few sentences. He tucked the letter away and decided he would send it via telegraph later.

Replacing his notebook seemed to be the only sensible thing to do at this point, at least, until he got the original one back. From the drawer of his desk, he pulled out one of the extra notebooks he found and decided to use it as a replacement for the last. He readied his pencil, but stopped and thumbed through the blank pages. _I haven't drawn in so long,_ he recalled Rose saying. He was suddenly struck with a bold idea. Perhaps if he was unable to help her, Andrews felt he could at least grant her a small means for happiness by giving her a blank notebook for drawing.

He gathered four extra pencils and tied them together. He opened the book to the first page and scribbled a note on the first page: _To The Artist, Draw your own dreams. Your friend, The Shipbuilder._

He shut the book and took out a large piece of drawing parchment, laying it on the desk in front of him. He used it to wrap up the book and pencils, and tied the make-shift package together with a piece of twine. For a moment he held it in his hands. What if Rose didn't want it? Did he really know what was he doing? What did he have to lose?

"Henry," he called to his steward. "Will you deliver this to room B-56, please. And make sure it goes only to Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater."

The young man nodded and disappeared down the hall with the small package.

Andrews unfurled a roll of ship blueprints and sat at his desk. He didn't know what would happen. A sudden wave of anxiety began to build. What if Cal intercepted the package? The idea seemed so perfect a moment ago, but now it only worried him. He could only hope Rose would receive the package without any trouble.

………………………………………….

The evening arrived sooner than he expected. Andrews prepared the staff for Cal's surprise proposal. As he made his way to the floor above the Grand Staircase, he felt a wave of sickness rise in his stomach. He knew going through with Cal's plan made him feel like he was betraying Rose.

He checked his pocket watch. 7:55. He peered out the window of the upper landing to the floor below. Stewards were busy ushering people out in a quiet fashion, undoubtedly letting them know what was about to happen.

For a moment he thought he could sacrifice his notebook, allow Cal's plan fail by running in an calling a halt to it all. What did it matter anyhow? He could easily risk that dreadful embarrassment of having Rose know how he secretly felt about her. It would hurt no more than a sting from the bees he kept back home. But then would he feel the lingering pain afterwards? No. He could not bring himself to do it. Either way, Rose would end up marrying Cal.

Andrews turned his attention back to the foot of the Grand Staircase. The floor was empty. He held his breath and felt his heart hammer in his chest as he waited for the couple to appear. He heard a door open below and saw Cal and Rose appear. Andrews hid himself behind a door frame and looked down, watching Cal escort Rose to the base of the stairs. He saw him mouth a few unheard words to her. Rose looked around, undoubtedly wondering where everyone was. There seemed to be a brief pause where neither spoke. Finally, Cal took Rose's hands in his and knelt on one knee. Andrews could hardly bring himself to watch. He saw Rose inhale sharply, a blank expression on her face, like she was facing her own execution. He saw her nod and could read the words "yes" from her lips. Cal slipped the ring onto her finger and kissed her hand. Andrews knew it was like a deathtrap for her.

"Alright, open the doors. Let them through," Andrews said, his mouth dry. One of the porters gestured to another to do the same. A flood of ladies and gentlemen passed through the doors, their voices in a buzz of curiosity. A group of familiar faces including Ruth, Molly Brown, and the Astors gathered around the two congratulating them.

Andrews descended the staircase, making sure to avoid Rose at all costs. Through the clamor, he approached Cal without saying a word, his eyes livid and hurt.

Cal reached in his jacket pocket with a smile and presented the notebook to the agitated shipbuilder. He reached for it, but Cal pulled it away and moved in close to Andrews. "Keep to your ship," he whispered icily into his ear. "My fiancée is no longer your concern."

Cal deposited the book into Andrews' hand and returned to his party leaving the shipbuilder to return to his cabin weak and wounded.


	8. One Man's Ecstasy

Chapter 8: One Man's Ecstasy 

Sunlight made her glow with brilliance—he'd always noticed that about her. She grinned happily at him as they walked side by side. He took her hand in his and kissed the top of it. Now it was his turn to smile. He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek in his hand. He kissed her softly.

"I love you, Rose."

"And I love you, Thomas Andrews."

The shipbuilder played the unspoken words over in his head as he stared absently at the blueprints in front of him. Why did musing on the impossible always keep him from tending to more important things? He had drawn a series of small lines with a piece of chalk extending the walls of the bulkheads up one deck more. It was the flaw he always wished to correct, but knew very well that he couldn't. A builder never had the final say in the design.

Andrews leaned back in his chair with no desire to move and heaved a tired sigh. Sailing _Titanic _was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but it had turned into an unpleasant journey. All he wanted was to be back in Belfast sitting comfortably in his office at Harland and Wolff. The thought of leaving his home was enough to trouble him from the onset, but now there was the matter of Rose. To think that she would be whisked away to America in the arms of an insensitive man weighed on his mind even more, and he was suddenly broadsided by the realization that he would never see her again after they arrived in New York. He felt hollow inside. As much as he tried, he couldn't turn a blind eye to her. She was a part of his life now as much as he was of hers. He couldn't, with the drop of a hat, become uninvolved.

He shook his head. She was simply his friend—that was all, he knew. He would not allow any other improbable fantasy get in the way.

Andrews rolled up his blueprints and placed them in his desk drawer. Perhaps his love for Rose would abate in time. But then again, he undeniably believed in some way that he was akin to her. How could anyone else be as pure of heart as she was? He felt her pains, he wished for her happiness, but did she realize how agonizing it was for him to watch from afar without the strength to reveal his true feelings?

_No you fool, she doesn't, _Andrews fiercely thought. Perhaps he just wasn't able to rise to the occasion, or someone who was held captive by fear. _Fear of what?_ Andrews thought. A moment of embarrassment? An adverse reaction from Rose? What did it matter anyway? In time, the ocean would separate the two of them and he would have to let her go; let the social throngs of America swallow her up and turn her into a vapid high-society snob.

He considered asking her if they could carry on a friendly correspondence after parting. Receiving letters from Rose would be a small comfort, as would sending them to her, but the image of Cal intercepting them quickly trampled the thought to oblivion.

_Damn Cal,_ he thought as his notebook stared back at him from his desktop. The book had suddenly become a painful reminder of what happened to Rose. What Cal did. What Andrews himself did. If he hadn't lost his notebook, if he hadn't drawn a portrait of Rose, if he hadn't written about her…if he hadn't fell in love with her, none of this would have happened.

He heard the rustle of something near the door of his cabin and saw a piece of paper being pushed beneath. It was highly unusual for anyone to send messages this way. He went over and picked it up and discovered that it was not a letter at all, but a drawing—a detailed sketch of an old rowboat tied to a pier on a small lake. Andrews smiled to himself. There was no signature, but he knew there was only one person who could have drawn it. It appeared Rose hadn't forgotten about the time he told her of Strangford Lough, and the picture was an admirable likeness of the locale.

Immediately he opened the door, hoping she would be there, but his brief moment of eagerness died away when he found the hallway vacant. He sighed and held the drawing in both palms of his hands, his thumbs hovering above the paper to avoid smudging the pencil lead.

He brought the drawing over to his desk and placed it carefully inside his notebook for safekeeping.

His room was stifling, and Andrews felt he would go mad if he stayed in it the rest of the evening. He needed air and decided to walk along the deck to clear his mind.

…

The sea was unusually calm; almost as flat as a sheet of glass. Andrews walked the deck alone, his notebook resting in the breast pocket of his overcoat, Rose's drawing tucked into its pages.

He descended the stairs to the deserted poop deck and sat on a nearby bench. The cool night air began to lull him into another reverie. It was summer, and he was lying on a green hill, staring up at a perfect blue sky. Rose was beside him, a smile on her face. Their hands were intertwined, and his love was finally reciprocated. No longer did she have to worry about decorum and etiquette. She was simply happy. He could make her happy. It was then he resolved to tell Rose how he felt about her before they reached New York. _Easier said than done, _he thought.

The pounding of footsteps on the opposite side of the deck and sobbing shook him from his reverie.

He turned toward the sound and saw the silhouette of a woman rush past. For a fleeting instant he thought it was Rose, but it couldn't have been. Could it? It was too dark to tell. Whoever it was appeared terribly distraught.

He stood and followed the crying woman up to the stern fantail. A nearby light cast its glow on the woman, and it was enough for Andrews to recognize the dress of red and black. She had climbed over the rail and was leaning out towards the blackness.

"Rose?" Andrews cried. She turned her head to look at him. The shipbuilder's expression was filled with shock. "What are you doing?"

Her face was red and streaked with tears, her hair a tangled mess.

"Don't come any closer."

Andrews edged towards her. "Rose, take my hand. Come back over."

"Go away!" she shouted. The startled shipbuilder retracted his outstretched hand.

"I can't," he said.

"Please just go, Mr. Andrews," she said hoarsely.

But Andrews could not turn away from her now. He had to think of another way to bring her back without startling her. With trembling hands he pulled out his notebook.

"I was hoping perhaps you'd be able to help me," he said, trying to keep his voice from faltering. "You see, I have this drawing…" he said, removing the sketch. "Here it is. A very beautiful drawing, you see." He held it up as he inched slowly towards Rose. "But it looks as though whoever drew it forgot to sign their name."

Rose clutched the rail tightly, her knuckles turning white. Andrews could hear her hurried breaths and his heart hammered violently in his chest as he stepped closer to her.

"Don't all great artists sign their work?"

She did not answer.

"Rose," he spoke in a near whisper. "Give me your hand."

She still held on to the railing for what seemed like an eternity. The shipbuilder's mouth had gone dry. He pocketed his notebook and stepped all the way up to the rail. The propellers churned the frigid waters below and he became nauseous at the thought of Rose falling into that black abyss.

"I couldn't bear to lose the only friend I have on this ship," he said in one last effort of desperation.

He held out his hand without saying a word. She looked at it for a moment, then back out into the dark void in front of her, trembling. Slowly, she turned around and faced Andrews. She slid her hand into his and gripped it tight. It felt like ice against the shipbuilder's skin.

"I've got you," Andrews said. "I won't let you go."

He carefully helped her back over the rail until she was safe on the deck of the ship. Rose shivered from the cold, and without hesitation Andrews took off his overcoat and placed it around her.

"Let's get you inside," he said leading her away from the end of the stern.

"No. No," Rose spoke. "I don't want to go back in there. I just need…" She trailed off and sat on a nearby bench. She pulled the coat tightly to her. Andrews slowly took a seat next to her, fearing any sudden movement would cause her distress. He allowed her time to regain composure.

She looked defeated; not at all how she looked the day before. It was though her strength had eroded away and she was receding into herself. All Andrews could think about was protecting her. Soon Rose's breathing became even again.

"Cal had an outburst today," she spoke slowly.

At the mention of the man's name, Andrews felt a fire ignite in his chest. If only Cal had been the one hanging off the back of the ship.

"It's not the first time," she added.

"I should have known," Andrews said quietly.

"I didn't want _this_," she said twisting her engagement ring. "Any of this. I don't want to be Cal's wife. All I want is to just-" she stopped abruptly, her voice filled with exhaustion. She wrung her hands together and tried in vain to hold back imminent tears. "This is not an engagement…it's…"

_An execution,_ Andrews wanted to say.

She sighed, frustrated. "How can I possibly love someone I'm not _in love_ with? How can I live with him for the rest of my life? Bear him children? What choice do I have?" she asked softly. "I…I don't know what to do."

Her prolonged silence made Andrews ache inside, and an irritable strain pounded through his head. How could he comfort her without embracing her selfishly as his own? How could keep the words he wanted to say from falling through the sieve in his mind? After a moment, she met his eye.

"What would you do, Mr. Andrews?"

He held her gaze. _I would steal you away, _he thought. And with that single look he wanted to tell her how fond he was of her, to pour out his feelings and show her that he was unable to leave her side. HHHe wanted to say how much her departure would diminish his soul and reduce him to nothing but a hopeless wreck who had not the courage to help her escape from her plight. What was the prevailing force that held him back from admitting everything? He could so easily speak the words if he wanted to, but another half of him always fought against it_. Just tell her,_ he thought. _Tell her you love her._ _Tell her now, before she leaves you forever!_ _Tell her!_

"I can't," he whispered, turning from her sad countenance.

"Can't what?" she asked.

Andrews shook his head embarrassed. "I can't…can't help but think that you deserve better," he managed to say. "Don't marry him. For your own sake."

"What choice do I have?" Rose asked. "I've already accepted."

"You always have a choice. Call it off," he said, vaguely hoping such an intimation would persuade her otherwise.

She turned away. It was difficult for her to accept this and she only laughed quietly. "You don't know Cal. He can't be refused."

"Perhaps he should learn to be," Andrews said with subdued resentment. He hoped Rose couldn't see his melancholy face through the darkness. One more step and he felt as though he'd fall off the edge.

"It was always inevitable. I knew that from the start. Somehow in the back of my mind I thought I had the strength to elude a convenient, passionless marriage," she said dryly, trying to keep tears from falling. "How foolish I was to believe that."

Andrews could no longer watch Rose continue to punish herself. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "Rose, it will be alright," he said. She pushed back strands of unkempt hair and dried her eyes. "I…promise you it will..." he trailed off knowing too well that the future was uncertain. Rose seemed to realize it too. She gave the handkerchief back to him.

"Mr. Andrews, for someone who has the grandest ship on earth to worry about, you choose to concern yourself with me," she said. "How do you manage to care so much?"

Andrews was rendered speechless. She looked so sad, so lost, and all he wanted to do was take her in his arms. To simply hold her close, to feel her body pressed against his own in a warm embrace would wipe away any feeling of loneliness that overpowered him.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't carry on like this," Rose said. "I've already troubled you enough as it is."

"It's no trouble. Don't ever think that," said Andrews. "You're a dear friend and I-"

He stared at her briefly, but couldn't bring himself to disclose his true feelings. She looked at him expectantly. Andrews barely knew what to say next. It could very well be the last time he'd ever be able to speak to Rose.

"We'll be arriving in New York soon."

"Yes," she said quietly.

Andrews took a deep breath and faced her. "Rose…I fear this ship won't be the same once you leave," he managed to say.

"You're saying goodbyes now?"

"No. Well, I…I only wanted to say that I..." he paused, searching her glassy eyes. "I will miss you terribly."

A smile filled her sad face. "And I you," she said.

Andrews' breath caught in his throat. He looked at Rose and opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. He brought his hand up to her cheek and brushed away a falling tear. He could bear it no longer. Every bit of restraint he possessed began to collapse beneath his longing for the young woman beside him. He leaned his head towards her and pressed his lips to her own. A wave of warmth passed through his body; the night was no longer cold. He was back on the lake, sitting beside her in the rowboat. Just he and his dear Rose. But as suddenly as the image materialized, it began to dissolve.

Rose did not resist his embrace, nor did she reciprocate. Shaken back to reality, Andrews quickly pulled away. "I-I'm so sorry," he said, standing hastily. "What am I doing?"

Rose remained still. Andrews read the astonishment in her expression. _You've just made things even worse, _he thought, reproaching himself.

Neither moved. Andrews wished Rose would speak. Finally after a long moment of silence, she stood with rigidity, not daring to look at him. "Excuse me," she said flatly and walked away.


	9. Blame, Part I

**A/N: Don't you hate it when real life gets in the way of important things like fanfiction? That being said, my most infinite apologies for not updating in soooo long. **

Chapter 9: Blame, Part I

Rose had left with his coat, he realized. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now. Andrews didn't care.

He fell back onto his stateroom bed as Rose's astonished expression continued to play over and over in his reeling mind. Why had he acted in such haste? How could he have thought a kiss would improve her situation? How could he have been so foolish?

He pressed his fingertips into his strained eyes. Could the evening get any worse?

There was a knock at his door. He groaned and considered not answering it. Who would possibly need to see him at this hour? He knew whoever it was couldn't be Rose—how could she forgive him after such a debacle? He stood with an irritated sigh and opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Andrews. I thought I would find you here. _You. _Hiding away like a craven child in his room."

The shipbuilder glared at the man who stood before him. "What do you want Mr. Hockley?"

"I believe I would ask that same question of you," Cal said evenly.

Andrews's eyes traveled to a familiar overcoat draped over Cal's arm.

Cal flashed his familiar smirk. "Now what was it that I told you before? Oh, yes: that my fiancée is no longer your concern."

"As of one hour ago she was," Andrews retorted defiantly.

"Then pray explain to me why I found a certain fiancée of mine wearing a certain shipbuilder's overcoat?"

Andrews said nothing as a mixture of rage and fear boiled inside of him.

"Go on Andrews, you seem to be a man who always has an answer to everything."

"Didn't you try asking her yourself?" Andrews replied as he leaned towards Cal. "Or did you strike her first?"

Cal's face contorted with fury. He threw the coat at Andrews, knocking him off balance. Cal lunged at Andrews and slammed him against his desk. Andrews let out a grunt of pain and sank to the floor as Cal pinned him down, both hands wrapped around his neck. Andrews tried to wrestle free, but found it useless to struggle against Cal's tight grip.

"You're about to learn a valuable lesson, Shipbuilder," Cal hissed as he drew a clenched fist back and drove it straight into Andrews' face.

Andrews groaned as a sour taste rose from his stomach and filled his mouth. Blood trickled down his lip. Cal seized Andrews by his coat and lifted him so they were face to face.

"Rose is _mine_," he said through gritted teeth. There was a hoarse tinge of fearful, almost child-like distress in his voice. "Do you understand?"

Andrews stared into Cal's rage-filled eyes. He pursed his lips and sent a mixture of blood and bile hurtling into the millionaire's face.

Cal reeled back, his expression filled with surprise and disgust. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat as Andrews managed to haul himself to his feet. He locked eyes with Cal whose face had gone red.

Cal's demeanor stiffened. He swung his clenched fist at Andrews who blocked the oncoming strike. Exhausted and overwhelmed, Andrews gathered what little strength he had left and grabbed Cal by his jacket lapels, thrusting him against the armoire.

"You were _never_ worthy of a woman as good as Rose," the shipbuilder growled.

"And you think you can save her, Andrews?" Cal replied. "Let me tell you something: that whore is beyond saving."

Andrews' eyes grew wide. Without a rational thought, Andrews' clenched fist returned a stinging blow across Cal's jaw. The pain radiated in Andrews' hand as Cal toppled to the ground unconscious. Andrews felt dizzy and in turn, slumped to the floor.

The door handle of his stateroom rattled open, and in burst Andrews' steward Henry who stood there in shock.

"Are you alright, sir?" his steward asked, pulling Andrews to his feet. A rush of blood poured from his nose as he stood. Andrews staggered and tried to regain his balance by steadying himself against Henry's shoulder.

"Thank you, Henry," Andrews said as Henry fetched a basin of water and a cloth for the shipbuilder's wound. He pressed the wet cloth against his blood-covered lip. "Well, this certainly will be a night to remember," Andrews said as he smiled sardonically and sat in his desk chair.

"What happened, sir?" the steward asked.

"I'll tell you momentarily," Andrews said. He looked to Cal, who was still lying unconscious on the floor. "But first, I must ask another favor of you, Henry."

"Anything."

Andrews pulled out a coil of twine from his desk drawer. "This man is a threat to the people on this ship and must be locked up. Would you tie his hands together and fetch the Master at Arms? It looks like we'll be making the first arrest tonight on this ship."


End file.
